


Before Darkness Comes

by mcicioni



Category: Italy Unpacked (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M, References to COVID-19; a few references to mild d/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Andrew and Giorgio in Naples, in the first days before COVID-19 becomes a pandemic.
Relationships: Andrew Graham-Dixon/Giorgio Locatelli
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	Before Darkness Comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [colisahotnorthernmess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/gifts).



> With all my thanks to darcyone for her great betaing and to colisahotnorthernmess for her incredible patience (my contribution to our mini-challenge is being posted _three months_ after hers).
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is based on the public personae of two real people, but the situation and emotions in the story are entirely my invention.

“I can’t understand why I haven’t yet shown you the _Flagellation of Christ_.” Andrew shakes his head at himself. “Last time we were here, we saw the _Works of Mercy_ , but somehow we missed this.” He lays a hand on Giorgio’s shoulder and gently pushes him a little closer to the huge picture. His heart is beating a little faster, like every time he introduces Giorgio to a new painting, or a new sculpture, or a new building.

Giorgio studies the painting for a few minutes, in utter silence, then takes a couple of steps back and stares at Andrew. “It’s brutal,” he whispers. “No blood. No, what’s the word … _gore_? No gore at all. And yet, it’s so violent.”

“That’s the power of Caravaggio,” Andrew says, his voice low. He has seen _The Flagellation of Christ_ a score of times, analysed it in his book, lectured about it, and every time it’s like the very first time, the same shock, the same feeling of being floored. He touches Giorgio’s back, lightly, hoping that his friend will not take his explanations as patronising. “The three torturers are coming out of three different pools of blackness: one of them is kicking the back of Christ’s knee, another has grabbed him by the hair, and we don’t even see the face of the one who is kneeling, because he’s grabbing the knotted ropes he will scourge Christ with. Blood is unnecessary, Giorgio, it’s enough just to look at their faces and movements, they are the embodiment of evil.”

Giorgio steps towards the picture again, then turns back towards Andrew, his forehead furrowed, his eyes troubled. His hair’s gone white in the past months, and right now he’s looking older than his fifty-seven years. Andrew sighs: he’ll turn sixty in less than a year. 

“Christ is beautiful, but he looks so weary, so resigned,” Giorgio says slowly. “His body is full of light, but it’s surrounded by darkness.” He sighs deeply. “Terrifying. But … thank you,” and Andrew knows he means it.

They take the shuttle from the Capodimonte Museum back to the centre of Naples and wander side by side along the cobbled streets of the Spanish Quarters. Andrew has been here several times by himself, the energy of these streets never fails to warm up his British blood; it’s a cliché, but like all clichés there is quite a bit of truth to it. Right now, beside Giorgio, he feels warm even though it’s the end of January. 

As usual, motor scooters are whizzing by left, right and centre, and women need to protect their handbags from young, nimble back seat passengers. Market stall owners are singing out praises of their goods in loud, mostly incomprehensible dialect. Lines of washing stretch above their heads, across the street, between the windows and balconies of half-crumbling eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings. It’s early 2020, and Naples seems unchanged.

“ _Vassene il tempo e l’uom non se n’avvede_ ,” Giorgio says, a well-known line from Dante’s Purgatory: time passes on, and we do not perceive it. Andrew starts and stares at him: has Giorgio always been a mind-reader, or is it that great minds think alike? But Giorgio is looking melancholy, this won’t do. Andrew stops at a fishmonger’s stall and looks at the still alive octopus and sardines writhing in their brine: “So, what shall we get for dinner?” 

Giorgio shakes his head. “No fish, no meat. Tonight I’m feeding you some _cucina povera_ , poor people’s food, a Neapolitan meal, semi-vegetarian.” He moves to the next stall and buys an onion, carrots, celery, four potatoes and a few handfuls of the bitter leafy greens called _friarielli_. A quick visit to a deli yields a packet of _penne_ and some _pancetta_. “ _Tutto qui, Andrea_. You can thank me later.”

Not entirely convinced, but used to trusting Giorgio, Andrew nods, and goes to buy _La Repubblica_ from a newspaper kiosk. As they walk home, he glances at the headlines: more mutual accusations between the government and the opposition, and some sort of epidemic somewhere in China. 

The small Airbnb flat is theirs in all senses of the word. The two of them, not the BBC, have paid for it, and there are no camera staff, no lighting staff, no drivers, no security or makeup people. Nobody knows they are here: they have managed to get away for five days, a stolen brief encounter which is also a reconnaissance trip, a hunt for artworks and dishes and people they missed on their previous visits. And a chance to see if they are still passionate about what they do, if they have managed not to grow stale.

Giorgio opens the door and waves Andrew in. Andrew drops the deli carrier bag, goes to the fridge and opens the bottle of prosecco. They lightly clink glasses, and Andrew chuckles: “Better than all those formal toasts at the Marquis’s palace.” 

“Brrrrr,” Giorgio says, rolling his “r”s theatrically; they look at each other and laugh, remembering their nightmare visit, a couple of years ago, to the _palazzo_ of an old aristocratic family, where everyone treated them with condescension and even looked down their noses at Giorgio’s culinary masterpiece. Still chuckling, they start working together, chopping onion and carrots for the _soffritto_. 

Then Giorgio takes over, just like when the cameras are on. “First you wait for the _soffritto_ to caramelise,” he explains dramatically, and Andrew looks up from _La Repubblica_. “Then you add the potatoes, and they must be given the time to disintegrate, so that they are nearly a cream, and that’s when you add the pasta, and …”

He stops, losing his concentration, and stares at Andrew. Andrew looks up again.

“This virus in China,” Giorgio says. “Is it true that some scientists said that it could easily spread to other countries, and maybe to Europe?”

Andrew nods and settles his reading glasses up on his nose. “It may have already started spreading all over the world.”

Giorgio frowns. “Really? Seems long-fetched to me.”

“ _Far-fetched_ ,” Andrew corrects, and gets a little thank-you smile. “No, it isn’t really. China is on the other side of the world, but there must be hundreds of thousands of businesspeople who keep travelling there and back.”

“Students. Tourists,” Giorgio stirs the mixture in the pot. “Second- and third-generation Chinese Italians, or Chinese Britons. Say some of them travel to China, get the virus, and then travel back home. Easy.” He sighs and focuses again on his pot. “Now it’s time to put the pasta and the stock in. It has to be short pasta, it blends better with the potato cream.” He mock-glares at Andrew. “And you, make yourself useful. Sauté the _friarielli_. Lots of garlic.”

No need for any other courses, the _pasta e patate_ is rich and filling, and its creamy thickness combines well with the sharp, bitter taste of the sautéed greens. “Amazing,” Andrew beams, just barely remembering not to talk around his food.

Giorgio smiles at him, but he isn’t his usual buoyant self, half his mind is elsewhere. He puts the Moka pot on the stove, and while they’re waiting for the coffee to brew he says, in a curiously flat, almost disconnected voice, “We could already be in danger. You, me, Neapolitans, Italians. Maybe England. Maybe the whole of Europe.”

“Yes. We could,” Andrew replies, and does not feign ignorance, he just reaches across the table and runs a finger along the back of Giorgio’s hand, from fingertip to wrist. “But,” he slides his finger around Giorgio’s wrist and gently rubs the underside, he knows how ticklish Giorgio is, “if an epidemic starts, it’ll probably be over in a couple of weeks, three at the most. And by then you and I will have wooed the producers with our stunning Neapolitan experiences and low budgets.”

Andrew does the washing up: another moment of domesticity, to be mocked and enjoyed at the same time. Andrew smiles as he rinses the dishes twice, to avoid Giorgio’s nationalist outbursts (“You English, you _reense_ only once, and the next day you eat detergent as well as meat and sauces”). Giorgio has wandered off into the bedroom, and re-emerges with a book in his hands, reading aloud from it.

“Andrew, this is such an excellent description of the _Flagellation_ , listen. _His exhaustion is conveyed by the line of his neck, the way he has wearily allowed the weight of his head to sag on to his shoulder._ ”

“I know,” Andrew laughs, putting the dishes into the drying rack. “I actually wrote the thing.”

“Yes, but maybe you forget how good your description is, you really get the essence of it, _Too tired to hold himself upright, he has stumbled forward from the base of the pillar._ ” He looks fondly at the page, and then suddenly his face darkens and he sits down. “Andrew,” he says, blinking. “If things get worse, governments may close art galleries, you won’t be able to do your research.” He runs a hand through his white curls. “And they may close restaurants and pubs as well.” His eyes grow wide, the lines on his forehead deepen.

“Calm down. It’s probably nothing catastrophic,” Andrew says, placing his hands on the table, staring at them and wondering why Giorgio’s thoughts keep going back to this bloody virus. He sighs, warmth rushing through him: Giorgio does not easily slide into what he calls _the doom and the gloom_ , but when he does, it’s typical of him to worry about other people first. 

“Not a lot either of us can do if things get serious,” he says carefully. “But you’re right – if they do, there probably will be less travel anywhere, so no more funding for programs like ours.”

“Fuck,” Giorgio says, and Andrew nods, with a stab of longing for their past times together, when it wasn’t all that hard to ditch the filming crew for a couple of hours or an evening, and when they could build up an ever- growing stockpile of memories for the months when they would be apart.

Giorgio’s hands cover his – they’re larger and they’re shaking just a little. Andrew knows every knuckle, every scar, every cut, every burn. “This can’t be end of … of _us_ . It just can’t.”

Andrew takes a deep breath. “Giorgio. Stop it. Now.”

Over the years they have been travelling together, there have inevitably been times when one or the other of them felt frustrated or fed up, and the mood threatened to engulf them both. By trial and error, they have found out that when darkness comes, the best solution is for the other partner to take over, to drag his friend out of the dumps, irrespective of how much he may kick and scream. Tonight it’s Andrew’s turn.

“Up,” he orders. Giorgio stands up, slowly, wearily. 

Andrew points to the bedroom door. “I’ll give you _the end of us_ ,” he says sharply. “With _this_ ,” and he stretches an arm towards the drying rack and grabs the wooden spoon they had used for the _pasta e patate_. “If I have to.”

Giorgio goes a little pink and laughs shortly, with some amusement, some embarrassment, and also – for anyone with decent analytic skills – with some anticipation. They have enjoyed playing occasional little games ever since the day they spent in Genoa, when Giorgio was making herb pie and Andrew wasn’t cutting the stalks properly. Giorgio had threatened Andrew with _being severely beaten_ , and Andrew had giggled and muttered something about _a bit of domestic discipline in the kitchen_ ; things had sort of spontaneously developed from there, and had continued over the years, with both of them being less and less shy and inhibited as time went on.

“Enough so that we both can forget …” and Giorgio makes circles in the air with both hands, to encompass the darkness threatening them: the virus, the precarious standing of their program, the complications of their time together.

“Yes.” Andrew is glad to take him in hand and give him whatever he needs to snap out of his brooding. Even if it takes a little darkness. Darkness and light are inseparable, in the Caravaggio painting they saw earlier and in the way the two of them are when they are together. “I’ll make sure of that.”

Giorgio shifts in bed and stirs, wincing a little, but sighing in satisfaction. “Thanks,” he says, and his voice has gone back to being warm and loud instead of soft and uncertain. “Next time …”

Propped up on an elbow beside him, Andrew laughs and tickles under Giorgio’s sweaty armpit. “Oh, so there _will_ be a next time, then? Despite the virus?”

“Yes,” Giorgio says. “If the virus spreads, everyone’ll fight to beat it. Medical authorities, governments. Researchers.” His voice falters a little as he goes on. “We can only hope.” “And _yes_ ,” he adds, carefully turning onto his side and putting an arm around Andrew, “all we can do is keep seeing each other. As best we can.”

“ _Esatto_.” Andrew should speak Italian more often: every time he does, Giorgio looks absurdly pleased. Andrew gives him a half-smile. They are no longer young; all they can do is hope that the virus will not become an epidemic, and that they may manage to grow old near – though not beside – each other. It’s a lot, but – in spite of everything – they are both, basically, optimistic.

Andrew shivers a little in spite of the reliable Italian radiators, lies down and pulls the blanket up to cover both himself and Giorgio. “ _Dormi_ ,” he orders gently.


End file.
